When foliage goes on the attack

Sunday

Aug 12, 2012 at 6:00 AM

LAURA PORTER … Dispatches from the home front

Who knew that the words “leaves of three, let me be” could be so terrifying?

For the past two weeks, my husband has been walking around the house, arms raised like a scrubbed surgeon backing into an operating theater, while the calamine lotion on his skin dries to a pink glaze.

This month’s encounter with the deadly scourge of the ivy family came as the result of a weeklong session of bush and shrub trimming.

A few years ago, he discarded the electric clippers, attached to an orange extension cord that hung out the front window of the house and crept its serpentine way through the grass.

He decided he preferred the old-fashioned hedge trimmers, in company with a rake for pulling off cut fronds and the loppers for the occasional thick branch.

Having never quite trusted the lightning fast electric wand, which I thought of as one step short of a chainsaw, I was just as happy. It seemed less dangerous for him to wield a blade that he controlled with his own power.

The pruner himself claimed that power tools were a form of cheating. Much better, he said, to chop and shape on his own.

Whatever the rationale, this approach brought him up close and personal to every bit of flora under attack.

No matter what evil lurked beneath the legitimate foliage.

As he worked, he leaned, and as he leaned, he embraced, and as he embraced, the oil of doom worked its way down his arms and along one knee.

In the nefarious way of poison ivy, however, it was a day or two before it announced itself. First there were some stray red marks that could have been scratches, and then there was some itching, and then the telltale bumps and oozes became unmistakable.

He hung up the clippers — at least temporarily — and began to drench himself in pink lotion.

Meanwhile, I was seeing poison ivy everywhere.

There it was, masquerading as a normal plant, next to the daisies and the sedum.

A stray sprig — not a stray for long — popped up on the edge of the sidewalk.

Groundcover that I have long since defined as benign and refused to fear started to morph from five leaves to three, making me question my perception and my sanity.

I knew full well that the dead vine climbing up the pine tree in the back yard was far from dead, no matter how thoroughly it had been sprayed two years ago.

It was waiting, just biding its time.

Poison ivy never dies, unless you rip it out by the guts. And even then it tries to get you one last time, lashing out and trying to fling its oils here and there on its way into the garbage bag.

While I hid inside from it, putting off the normal weeding that needed to be done, I did research.

Online, I found various potions and tinctures to protect and treat, but it wasn’t until I stumbled on the gardens alive! site, a catalog with natural and organic gardening supplies, that I found what I was looking for:

A step-by-step primer on how to savage the beast without causing undue harm to the savager.

First, I was to apply a thick layer of Ivy Block to my hands, arms, face and any skin not covered by clothing.

I could do that.

Next, I was to thoroughly soak the ground where the ivy lurked.

I could do that, too.

Then, using a complicated system of thick plastic bags as gloves, I was to gently pull each strand of ivy free from the soil. By turning a bag inside out, I could discard both bag and ivy in a large garbage bag without touching anything.

More complicated, but I thought I might be able to handle that task as well.

After the deed was done, I was to go inside, discard all of my clothing in the washing machine for a cold rinse cycle, shower in only cool water and emerge unscathed by the oil of doom.

A willing partner was to hold the large garbage bag, open the door of the house, turn on the washing machine and the shower and otherwise prevent me from touching anything, anywhere, at any time in the process.